The Witness
by Burnt Hamster
Summary: Someone has noticed Holmes and Watson's relationship. And while the world has turned a blind eye he is determined to bring them under. Warning SLASH and future character death
1. Chapter 1

My first encounter with the duo came with an outbreak of Smallpox. Reinforcements were needed to keep the peace and subsequently quarantine the area. I was sent from my department indefinitely. We were at the tail end of the ordeal when I followed Lestrade to one 221B Baker street, trying to gain some familiarity with the area. Before we could knock the door swung open to reveal a perturbed little woman who thrust a journal at Lestrade.

"Dr. Watson said to give this to you Inspector" She began. I assumed by Lestrade's smile that the journal was the document he had been after. Looking over his shoulder as he flipped, I saw carefully written names, addresses and treatments. The handwriting became shaky as the Inspector flipped but remained legible.

"Mrs. Hudson-"

"He says to tell you he's not taking any cases no matter how Scotland Yard may grovel." She paused perhaps because of the shocked expression on my face and concluded, "His words not mine."

"No, no cases. Do you think I may have a short word with the doctor? I have an important question to ask him."

"I'm not to let you up Inspector. The doctor needs his rest."

"Just a question. He could nod or shake his head in answer then I will leave him be. Better than us popping in every other day, hm?" Lestrade smiled as Mrs. Hudson looked up the stairs considering.

"You upset him in the slightest and see if I open the door to you again." She threatened and then whirled around to ascend the stairs, it was assumed we follow. I held my tongue in response to her disrespect because Lestrade seemed comfortable in the situation and followed up the stairs.

Upon entering the threshold of the door a voice yelled from the other room, sharp with annoyance. "I thought I was quite clear that the Inspectors weren't to be brought up." I assumed he knew our identities because he had been looking out the window. Nothing else made sense.

"I just have a quick question for the doctor, Holmes."

"I am amazed that Scotland Yard still finds uses for the doctor even now that you have used him into sickness." The man behind the voice entered the room looking disheveled and weary, though his eyes were piercing and attentive.

"The doctor doesn't have the pox-"

"No he's quite immune, Inspector." His voice was edged with biting exasperation. "You have his notes."

"Yes, of which we are grateful. I wasn't expecting-"

"Even in his state Watson was able to perceive that proper documentation wasn't being kept."

I couldn't catch myself before saying, "And what state was that?" Those sharp eyes darted to me. A flash of something shot across his face before his ice cold detachment smothered it.

Lestrade, to my relief spoke up dragging those eyes in his direction. "How is the doctor?"

Holmes voice dripped condescension. "If you recall that limp he has Inspector? Even you should be able to observe it, it's quite apparent. Well it's from a war injury. He has a similar one on his shoulder. Now this injury gives him enough trouble normally let alone when he is on it for days, not bothering to eat, neglecting to drink and working himself into exhaustion. He is exhausted and dehydrated and fevered and in a lot of pain." He paused and I could see the muscles in his jaw visibly tighten. "I am not allowed into the quarantined areas Lestrade and I tell you if my doctor is ever returned in this state again next time you will be treating the sick yourself."

"Understood. May I ask the doctor a simple question?"

"If it's about the boy, Watson wrote a note to you at the end of the journal." Lestrade flipped to the end reading through the note. "If not I'm afraid the doctor is not lucid. We forced morphine on him much to his chagrin."

Lestrade's eyes were still on the note and I thought I saw his cheeks redden. "No. It's all explained here-"

"Chagrin?" I found myself asking. "Does this Dr. Watson have a history with addictive painkillers?" I have always considered myself an observant person and sometimes I admit I rush to negative conclusions and inappropriate inquiries. Again I found those eyes on me this time the flames weren't to be extinguished. I was saved by a yell from the bedroom immediately claiming his attention and those eyes. I was sure I was in a mad house when the yelling was in a language I couldn't place, intermingled with English names and medical terms that might as well have been foreign. Holmes darted to the bedroom, he called "Good day Inspectors." behind him in a tone that warned us we better not be in his rooms upon his return.

"It gives him nightmares." Lestrade spoke quietly from his reading.

"Excuse me?"

"Of the war. The morphine." At that the Inspector moved to exit.

Something came over me. I had put my foot in my mouth on both instances of opening it. And even though the man was insufferable and had more than disrespected the Scotland Yard I owed him an apology. So I followed him to the door he had exited into. It was cracked and I could see a sliver into the room. The doctor, I assumed it was he, was flailing on the bed his face was flushed and his hands were in fists. Holmes gently took hold of the thrashing arms and bent over the distraught form. I stood in shock as his face lowered and he kissed the doctor on the lips. It was a chaste kiss. Brief and comforting as one might see between an old married couple. The doctor stilled instantly as if suddenly grounded. A relieved sigh escaped his trembling teeth and it seemed he knew where he was. The lips moved from the mouth to rest on the forehead like a parent feeling for an infant's temperature. Holmes' eyebrows furrowed in concern as he pulled his lips from the face to be replaced by a wet rag.

Abandoning my noble intentions I back tracked to follow Lestrade. This Holmes character. He was respected. There was no arguing his intelligence. And he had a way over Scotland Yard that is to be rivaled. That made him powerful. And that made him dangerous. At this point he has been a help but if that were ever to change there would be no stopping him. And it had already started. Just a glimpse into a tainted soul that Scotland Yard, Lestrade, and all the doctor's eager readers were too blinded by admiration to see. But I would be watching.


	2. Chapter 2

My second interaction with the pair was during a case. Holmes had been running the whole show, much to my annoyance. Sending orders over his shoulder at Scotland Yard as if we were an army of messenger boys. Lestrade took the man in stride and I found myself acquiring an unshakable respect for the inspector's patience. At this point we were waiting outside a building for Holmes' to signal us in. A whole department at his disposal, with him alone with the man.

Turning to Lestrade I questioned him about Holmes. "I know Mr. Holmes is helpful but aren't you concerned that giving a man so much power will allow him to grow unruly?"

He simply smiled and said "The man is odd. No arguing that but his motives have never been more than intellectual as I see it. He barely profits, doesn't take much credit, and leaves us well enough alone when it's not involving a case. I'd bet my badge he's on our side. Granted he's an ass but I'm willing to endure him if it meant getting these vermin back in their cages. I like to think of it as a sacrifice for the good of the country." His smile grew a little wider. I was about to retort that Holmes is certainly smart enough to make himself appear unsuspicious when a shot was fired from inside the building. Not the signal we were waiting for. Lestrade's features hardened and he directed his men with a hand and ran toward the entrance. I followed close behind.

The scene we entered was surprising. Our man was on the ground, knocked unconscious it would appear from the bump swelling under the cut on his forehead. Otherwise he looked as if he was peacefully sleeping. His gun was still in his hand, his grip since loose. Lestrade kicked the weapon away and the man was carried off. Entering the room further found Sherlock Holmes propped behind an arm chair holding his side and panting. He was making quite a mess of the ornate rug.

Training took over and I moved to the door to call out, "We need a medic here!"

"No . . ." Holmes panted.

"Are you mad?!"

"Watson-"

"Don't be ridiculous we don't even know where the man is!" My patience was wearing thin.

He glared at me. Seemingly annoyed at being interrupted just as a doctor entered and moved to where I pointed Holmes out. As the man drew nearer, Holmes pulled back looking as if he might strike out at the poor man. Reminding me very much of a caged animal.

"DON'T . . . touch me" His breathing was becoming ragged and the doctor seemed aware he wasn't helping the situation because he looked at me apologetically before stepping back toward the door.

"Watson is . . ."

"Here." I watched amazed as the man strode in barely a falter in his step, Lestrade close at his heels. Holmes immediately relaxed as Watson dropped to his knees before him. His one hand seemed to automatically fall on Holmes' forehead for a gentle caress while the other pulled Holmes' own hand away to view the wound. The comforting hand soon abandoned its work to join the other probing the wounded area. Holmes no longer resembled a caged animal, he was now semi-reclined, at ease and intently watching Watson work with an indulgent smile on his face. Watson mumbled to himself as he shifted Holmes to check the exit would, every once in a while that one hand returned to rub circles into Holmes' hand or rest gently on his head. As it was doing now as he questioned him about his breathing to make sure a lung wasn't nicked. Holmes' eyes never left Watson's face as the doctor stitched, and bandaged him, materials flying from the bag with rehearsed ease. Finally finished the doctor sat, stretching his leg out in front of him and staring quietly at his patient. Holmes dropped his hand to rest on Watson's pained leg, smoothing the fabric down with a soft touch.

"What were you thinking? I was bloody useless coming in from the back." Watson finally spoke with tired frustration.

"There could have been another man . . ."

"You know very well there wasn't." Watson's anger seemed suffocated with what could only be described as concern. Fear. Looking around the room he seemed aware of the inspector and myself for the first time. Lestrade had been busying himself with checking out the room, and I unembarrassed had been observing the exchange. The doctor's eyes met my own and I felt a silent understanding between us. I had found them out and he knew it. His eyes flared with protectiveness. Holmes' eyes followed his gaze to rest on me as well, and I could feel him reading me as one may a book. Finally Watson looked away, dismissing me and pulled Holmes to his feet. And with as much grace as you could imagine a man with a limp guiding a man with a bullet wound to have the two exited with a brief word to Lestrade.

I turned with suppressed fury on Lestrade, "Can't you see something is going on between those two?"

He turned indignant eyes on me, "What are you suggesting?"

"Have you observed nothing?"

Lestrade took a breath and looked genuinely angry with me, "They are solitary men. They have both been through much and found friendship and trust in one another. That's more than many of us can hope. The doctor has lived through the war, the death of his wife and Holmes, who knows how Holmes came to be but it would seem he is lucky to find someone he can tolerate. As I've not met anyone beside Watson and his brother. They are good for each other. What business is it of mine or of yours to pry into their affairs?" At that he turned on his heels and left the room.


End file.
